


In A Season of Wither

by CalamityCain



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Divergence - Thor: The Dark World, Divergent Timelines, Gardens & Gardening, Intersex Loki (Marvel), Language of Flowers, M/M, Marriage, Mpreg, Mythology References, Secret Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 03:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13562268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: The god of thunder is also the god of fertile earth.Where he lays his hands, there green things take root and grow.To plant the seeds of longing and lust is to reap what you sow.{This divergent tale takes place afterThor: The Dark World,in which Loki does not fake his death but disappears after the battle with Malekith}





	In A Season of Wither

 

At the top of a gleaming tower, a storm-born garden grows. Its flowers bloom as heavy as his heart. Clusters of meadow rue and columbine and cinquefoil lace the air with sweetness; willow-herb and caraway soothe the soul in place of wintersong, though their balm is ever short-lived in the wake of the one who left him.

 

The god of thunder is also the god of fertile earth. Where he lays his hands on the dirt, there green things take root and grow.

 

In a conjured dome that holds a simulacrum of tropical air, wisteria and bougainvillea wilt and blossom anew in an eternal cycle, their papery petals moving like sensitive mimosa-leaf. No one else is allowed to touch them. May the Fates help you if a broken twig or bruised petal occurs by your hand; those electric-blue eyes are sharper than many take them to be.

 

He plants roses too, even though he does not favour their heavy unsubtle perfume. He plants them not for their scent but for the memories tangled in their thorny limbs. They are not roses of red, or white or pink, but black as night. Black as the hair of the one who left him. They draw you in yet curl away and speak with a wordless mystery all their own.

 

These velvety blossoms lie at the very heart of the wild and formless garden, a challenge to cultivate and starkly distinct from the snow-pale and purple hues of the wildflowers that spring with such ease at the thunder god’s touch. When he lays Mjölnir on the bed of roses, its thorned stems curl themselves like slender grass snakes around its handle. He lets the tiny fangs pierce his hand and watches the leaves turn all the greener from being touched with his blood. It is not water that makes these dark flowers grow.

 

Memory born of yearning is a song of want. And such songs do not go unanswered for long.

 

The intruder arrives on an uncommonly sweet balmy evening, with a light rainfall that kisses the wild thyme and tickles the delicate cinquefoil petals. It lingers for but a moment before disappearing in a swirl of droplets, catching the last of daylight in tiny prismatic beads.

 

Thor senses the change in the air, the strange rain that is not his own. He leaves the scene of the minor catastrophe that had mysteriously erupted in Madison Square Park and rides his Uru-conjured wind to the top of the tower, to find a sharpish scent pervading the garden’s light fragrance. It is teasing, mocking, full of intent. It is a scent he knows well.

 

In the heart of the floral cornucopia, his roses lie crushed: a velvet bed to the pale, sinuous form digging its nails into the damp grass as sharp green eyes fix themselves on his and the sly lips below them whisper:

 

“Does this please you, brother?”

 

Thor cannot find the words to convey the maelstrom of longing and rage and love and lust in his chest, so instead he returns the lust-blown stare with a stony one.

 

“You’ve ruined my roses.”

 

 _Ah, but were they truly yours? I know who you planted them for._ Words like silver serpents slither past his ears. Loki’s head arches back as he plays his own flesh with deft fingers, making himself slick and leaving glistening trails on the ink-dark petals between his legs; petals that match perfectly the shade of his tresses, each melting into the other. It is a rousing sight to be sure. Thor feels a desire seemingly as old as time trickle through his veins, pooling in his nether regions.

 

 “Don’t think I didn’t sense you behind the Madison Square attack.” He realised now it was simply a means to empty the building of the remaining Avengers. “A clumsy decoy, brother. You must be truly desperate.”

 

“You have no idea.” A harsh laugh follows.

 

“When you renounced my love, you left me barren,” he hisses. “You accuse me of leaving you. But it was you who left me. Thor, the thunder god, in love with a mortal woman.”

 

“How was I to know what you sought, Loki? You are as twisted and thorny as these stems. Little wonder they suit you well.” It does not escape his eye how the green tendrils dance softly around Loki’s naked limbs, never piercing them, as if they are a part of his sinew and soul.

 

“If you had but looked closer, you would have seen. But you were gazing elsewhere, full of pride and mad for glory. Never paying heed to what was beneath you. Never seeing how I ached for you. For a thousand years I have been empty; bereft.”

 

And now he parts his milk-white thighs to reveal what lies between like an offering. Rosy, gleaming, obscenely luscious. Thor cannot deny how his own loins clench with heat and longing at the sight.

 

“Fill me, brother. For I will be barren no more.”

 

Thor kneels amidst the ruined blossoms and feels the thorns part around them so that only softness is left. He lays a hand on the flat, firm belly beneath him. “Do you know what you ask of me?”

 

“I have known it for a hundred years. I ask you again, for the hundredth time.”

 

Lightning bristles in the growing storm above them. Loki shivers at the thought of being filled with it. Then the thought takes its full shape as his brother’s thick, ready cock fills deep his wet cunt and white electric heat from Thor’s fingers shoots through his veins, making him scream with the intermingling of pain and ecstasy.

 

_I want it all. Everything you have to give. Fill me with your seed, brother._

 

“You make your desires clear only when they are already being sated,” Thor says in heavy panting breaths, more ruthless with each thrust. “Must I fuck the truth from you each time?”

 

Loki answers in broken moans. _Do you not enjoy doing so?_

 

Thor finds a laugh spilling from his lips, even as he bruises Loki’s hips from digging his fingers into the smooth skin and burying his cock to the hilt in one brutal lunge. “Wayward creature.”

 

“And yet you ache for me. The more wayward I am, the more you wish to bend me to your will.” As if to prove his claim, strong creepers shoot from the earth and wrap themselves tight around Loki’s wrists and ankles, binding him, spreading him out to leave him as bare and helpless to his brother’s ravishments as he can possibly be.

 

_What is order without chaos? What is Thor without Loki, and Loki without Thor?_

 

Their lips meet; Thor pushes his tongue in as rudely and ruthlessly as his cock in his brother’s wet cunt. Cries and ragged pants melt into one another in a punishing rhythm. A stormcloud gathers above, spreading grey tendrils that crackle with lightning as strong calloused fingers leave bruises on Loki’s skin and one climax follows another, the surges of pleasure driving a thunderbolt through the thick warm air shrouding the tower.

 

They lie entwined in each other like damp rain-sated vines in the wake of their shared release. Caraway petals snow down upon them, white against black. Thor curls his fingers around Loki even as the trailing creepers binding him release their grip. In reassurance, Loki leans into his larger bulk, fitting perfectly angle for angle, curve for curve into his frame. Thor lets his hand wander freely over the flesh he alone has the privilege of claiming so completely, its nakedness enhanced by his own still largely clothed form.

 

Somewhere in the midst of this exploration, he falls into a content half-slumber. When he awakes, Loki is gone. This does not surprise him.

 

The air that had been warm with their lovemaking has gone cold. He gazes down at the crushed roses and wonders if he should cultivate a new bed, or leave the devastated petals as testimony to a union that had been all too ephemeral.

 

Sentiment is not something he fears; he embraces it, rushes headfirst into it as he does into battle. He knows that Loki, for all his uncaring ways, denies and disavows this same force that had pushed him into Thor’s arms. What had been his oft-spoken words? _“Better to let it burn.”_

 

He knows better by now than to be perturbed. His heart is as light as the newly clear sky above. Loki would return.

 

 

~

 

 

The bare branches, once heavy with the flowers of his homeland, have a haunting beauty all their own. They sway with the wind like brittle fingers reaching out to the ghost of memories buried in their roots. Their death is quiet, full of grace, like snowfall in the night. Thor has made peace with the phantom presence of his beloved. He does not tend his garden of yearning anymore.

 

Six and a half moons pass before that familiarly piquant scent touched with bitterness fills his senses once more; fills it to swimming, where once it had been a mere sigh. There is urgency in his brother’s presence. Accordingly, he rushes to meet it.

 

At the top of the tower, surrounded by barren tangles of twigs, Loki stands with burning eyes and a hand over a rounded, gravid belly. Its fertile fullness is at odds with his thin, shadowed face, which has a gauntness that was not there before. The fire in his gaze does not last; he sways like a weed, and Thor is barely in time to catch him as he falls.

 

 _You have your wish, brother_ , he thinks as he looks with growing alarm at the grey-hued visage he last remembered dewy and glowing with lust. _But is it worth this pain?_

 

As if reading his mind, Loki replies. “Do not doubt me. I was well enough till I went into hiding, and nourishment became scarce.” His voice is barely a whisper. “This was not something I cared to have the entire court and citadel of Asgard know of.”

 

“I was in Asgard but two months ago,” Thor says. “I would have defended you, Loki. You and your child – ”

 

“You and who _else,_ Thor?” Some of that old venom creeps into his faltering voice. “Frigga is gone. Odin is our ruler first and father second. There is no telling what...what he...” His breath hitches and his head falls back. Thor gazes upon the softening planes and dark lashes that look so innocent in the absence of consciousness, and knows that despite the storm of doubts building in his gut that he would die doing what is right for his brother and...

 

...and his child. His _family._

 

A rush of warmth fills his blood as realisation sinks in. _I am a father._

 

He carries Loki to his chamber on the second-highest floor of the tower’s residential quarters, grateful for the absence of his comrades. Now would be a most inconvenient time to explain his sibling’s presence, or undeniably pregnant state.

 

Then again, is there ever a good time to explain such a thing?

 

Roughly an hour later, as Thor is contemplating a fourth glass of bourbon (for Stark keeps all the rooms well stocked, bless his heart), Loki cries out, pulled rudely back to wakefulness with a kick from within his belly. Thor finds himself kneeling at the bedside before he even thinks of it. One hand cradles Loki’s neck while the other hovers hesitantly over the place where his unborn child rests.

 

“Are you alright? Was it a hard blow?” Despite his concern, he cannot help smiling. With Loki’s permission he lifts the fabric of the loose tunic and gently presses a hand to the swell beneath. “You must be a fine, strong child,” he murmurs.

 

“Children,” says Loki.

 

“What?”

 

“I carry twins.”

 

Thor is unable to describe the strange way in which his stomach turns, a feeling both dizzying and joyful. Twins. He wonders if they will look precisely alike or not. Perhaps a girl and a boy, perfect halves of each other. He lowers his head and leans it lightly against Loki’s belly.

 

“Babies don’t usually start to talk till after they leave the womb, you know.” His brother’s voice is dry, but lacks its usual sharpness.

 

Thor ignores him. In this moment, he longs for nothing more than closeness to his beloved and the child blossoming within. He keeps his head where it is. With only the faintest grumble, Loki lets him.

 

 

 

“You have to eat. Or the babies will starve.”

 

“I _know_ that, Thor. What kind of mother do you take me for?”

 

Despite his clearly weakened state, Loki’s body appears to be fighting him every other day. In one afternoon an entire four-course meal would disappear down his throat like liquid; in the next he would regurgitate the slightest morsel of food that passed his lips. Some nights he is wracked with nearly unbearable pain like phantom knives in his abdomen, biting back cries till his lip bleeds or dropping all pretence at stoicism and heaving dry sobs into Thor’s shoulder.

 

The other Avengers, Thor argues, must be enlightened of the situation. Loki is adamantly against this and threatens to disappear or to disown Thor as the father of his children should the tower’s other residents know of his presence and condition.

 

They argue about this for hours. For someone in such tenuous health, Loki is admirably tenacious. Thor gives in, if only because he is afraid of undue stress hurting his offspring. Loki takes to creeping about the place under a glam of invisibility or occasionally disguised as one of the Avengers, when it does not raise too much suspicion.

 

Neither of them are familiar with jötunn pregnancies. Or if, being a runt by ice giant standards, Loki’s body was ever fully developed for such an ordeal. And theirs would be a marriage of jötnar and Æsir blood; perhaps the children would be twice as strong for it, or perhaps monstrously flawed. More than once Loki wakes from a nightmare of giving birth to changeling freaks with twisted claws for fingers and eyes that are neither Æsir nor a jötunn’s deep ruby-red, but a sickly hue peeping from half-formed slits where eyelids should be. Or he dreams of endeavouring to push forth a giant of an infant, a hideous titan that tears him apart as it comes forth into a world that will slay it before it can speak its first word, and consider the act a mercy killing.

 

In his own less disturbed dreaming, Thor hears an echo of tormented cries. He reaches out to comfort his brother; but his hand grasps emptiness. He opens his eyes to find Loki is gone.

 

As if still guided by dreams, he lets his sleep-heavy steps lead him to the top of the tower.

 

Loki’s dark silhouette stands amidst bare branches and twigs delicately dusted with conjured snow. Ice crystals gleaming blue with moonlight bloom in place of meadow-rue, each one a delicate work of art. Fine petals rain down from nowhere to soften the barren earth and settle rather fetchingly in the black wavy locks.

 

“Very pretty, brother. I’d have dressed warmer if I knew you were in the mood for winter.”

 

Loki turns around. “It’s not my doing.” He looks down. “It is theirs. They can be unpredictable.”

 

“Already they are manifesting their abilities?”

 

“Like I said...unpredictable. And likely very powerful.” A faint smile crosses the thin lips. “I’m not sure if I can contain them till birth.”

 

Something in the way Loki’s entire frame stiffens when Thor draws near is an unspoken sign that he wishes to be held. Thor knows that in such a mood, he will swallow hot coals before saying so. He pulls Loki close to his chest and feels hard sinew soften in the comfort of their shared warmth.

 

He feels a deep shudder run through the thin shoulders. Thor tightens his hold just a little, rocking gently back and forth as if soothing a troubled child. After a while the shivering dies down and Loki bows his head as if to hide his face. Thor knows this means he is crying.

 

“Nightmares again?”

 

There is the softest of sniffles. “I was a fool to risk this. And yet...” Loki’s fingers entwine with his. “I cannot bring myself to regret it.”

 

“When has regret ever served us well?” Thor kisses the top of his head. “Besides, you will not be alone in this. We will face it together. If our children turn out to be, well...different, we will find some place to raise them away from judgment or cruelty. I would not abandon you or them, Loki. Ever.”

 

Loki is silent but his shoulders are heaving again. When he next speaks, he no longer bothers to hide the tremor in his voice. “And if they are whole, and beautiful?”

 

“Well.” Thor gently strokes the gravid belly, tracing its smooth curve with his palm. “I would like for them to be properly introduced to the people of Asgard. In the place they should rightfully call their home.”

 

“We are not wed. They would be bastards.”

 

Thor is considerably less impulsive than he was in his callow youth. But the decision that takes him next needs little thought; it seems, after all, a fitting conclusion to what had conspired between them for centuries.

 

He releases his hold and moves around so he is facing Loki. The latter knows him well enough to divine the intent taking form before it can manifest as words. “Don’t be ridiculous, Thor.”

 

“No, I’m being quite serious.”

 

“We don’t _need_ to be – ” Loki sighed. “I was thinking to start a new life here, with them. You could visit occasionally of course.”

 

“You do know ‘visit occasionally’ is what people here do when they’re _divorced._ ”

 

“Well, you’d be busy, wouldn’t you? Being an Avenger, and ruler of Asgard, and – ”

 

He is abruptly silenced as Thor grabs his arm and pulls him in for a kiss that steals all his remaining breath and leaves him weak and glassy-eyed. He can barely bite back a moan when they finally part. Without meaning to his fingers curl possessively in Thor’s hair and around a broad shoulder.

 

“if you think I would abandon my family,” says Thor, “then you think poorly of me.”

 

Loki scowls, then glares, then runs out of words and thoughts and instead viciously pulls a handful of the golden hair towards him, meaning to match the preceding kiss with one even more forceful. But then his brother’s warm hand is cradling his neck and he finds himself melting. His lips part like a flower at the first light of spring as he clings to Thor and welcomes a soft, slow kiss that is no less passionate for its tenderness. It seems to last forever. And forever is not enough.

 

“So,” Thor murmurs against his parted lips, “will you marr – ”

 

“No.”

 

Thor pulls away and frowns. He starts to speak, and Loki holds up a finger.

 

“Not like this.” A flush stains his pale cheeks. “It’s an important decision. And...and we should do it properly.”

 

 

~

 

 

They cannot agree on the perfect weather for a wedding, so the air is crisp and warm by turns, and only the gentle golden sun remains constant. The wisteria and amaranth veiling them from sight is in full bloom; clusters of acacia and apple-blossom and gorse are the only witness to their secret union.

 

Tradition decrees an exchange of swords to solemnise the alliance. In place of one, Thor offers up his mighty battle axe Jarnbjorn. A weapon he had wielded before Mjolnir came into his possession; and would one day be wielded by one, or perhaps both, of his children. It is almost too heavy for his bride – who presents him with a pair of slim ornate daggers – to carry, and is laid down swiftly lest poise and grace be compromised.

 

For Loki is the very picture of blossoming grace: his form-fitting leathers are replaced with flowing robes of a brilliant deep blue, and upon his head is an intricate bridal coronet of gold serpentine tendrils adorned with blood-red roses. His dark hair is wavy and lustrous and braided with fine gold threads. The time in Thor’s care has done him good; his face has lost most of its gauntness, and on this morning it all but glows.

 

Thor, dressed in full ceremonial armour, places Mjolnir between them to seal the exchange and his vows as husband and father. White orchids bloom where it touches the earth, spreading out to encircle them where they stand.

 

“Do we kiss now?” Loki whispers with a small smile, a mockery of coy modesty.

 

“If we are to consummate our union, we must do more than kiss, my love,” Thor replies in a most serious manner. Then his sombre expression gives way to a laugh full of joy as Loki’s greedy lips finds his and they fall to the petal-strewn ground in a mess of clinging limbs and urgent kisses as if they are hot-blooded youths again.

 

“Take off your robes and your crown, brother. I would not ruin your finery.”

 

There is the slightest hesitation as Loki pulls his robes closer. “My body is...not what it used to be.”

 

Thor frowned. “Do you think I care?” He pushes up the deep blue silk to reveal the rounded belly, slightly veined at the centre. “This body carries our children and keeps them alive.” He caresses the surface, then kisses it almost reverentially. “No other body could be lovelier. Or more deserving of love.”

 

Loki’s eyes darken suddenly with want. With a soft slither the silken clothing disappears. “Do you marital duty then, husband, and fuck me thoroughly.” He lies back, breathless, hips already arching in need.

 

“And your crown?”

 

“Leave it. I wish to wear it as you fuck me.”

 

Thor drinks in the sight hungrily. The ornate adornment, after all, seems only to enhance Loki’s nakedness. He takes hold of the slim wrists and rolls his hips so Loki can feel the eagerness of his sex. “Do not expect me to be gentle.”

 

With a surprisingly deft move for one heavy with child, Loki flips him onto his back and straddles him. “I would be very disappointed if you were.”

 

“Wayward creature.” His next words are less coherent as Loki’s already slick cunt parts around his cock and his pretty, glowing bride rides him at a breathtaking pace beneath the amaranth blooms and the most perfect blue sky the city has ever seen.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So, at what point do we tell Thor that the security cams extend to the rooftop?”

 

Natasha returns Tony’s question with a blank look. “How about we don’t.”

 

“Good idea.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **On the language of flowers**  
>  (and their significance throughout the story)
> 
> Rue: sorrow  
> Violets: faithfulness  
> Caraway: preventing infidelity  
> Columbine: deceived lovers; see Shakespeare’s Ophelia  
> Acacia: secret or hidden love  
> Apple blossom: fertility, sensuality; Celtic symbol of amorous love  
> Amaranth: undying love; from Greek _amárantos_ for ‘unfading’  
>  Orchids: Virility, fertility
> 
> In the Kabuki drama _Fuji Musume_ (The Wisteria Maiden), a young woman from a painting falls in love with a passer-by and steps out from the painting, still holding the branch of wisteria she was depicted with. She writes heartfelt letters to her love that go unanswered, her longing and pining is expressed through dance. At the end she returns to her painting and resumes her flower-bearing pose.
> 
> In the Victorian language of flowers, the lush, clambering wisteria says “I cling to you.”


End file.
